


The Lightkeeper

by islandsmoke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Friendship, Geekage, Historical, No Fluff, Other, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2020-01-15 02:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18489457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandsmoke/pseuds/islandsmoke
Summary: Remus is the lighthouse keeper on a small island during the 1800s.  One day, the sea brings him a visitor.





	The Lightkeeper

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Remus is a lighthouse keeper, Snape's boat encounters a storm. Stranded together, UST, AU/AR.
> 
> The setting is fictional although some of the events are not. I tried to be as historically accurate as possible. There are probably too many notes at the end.
> 
> The title plate photo was taken by my friend Jan. The wonderful artwork is a gift from the fabulous fabledtruant.  
> Betas: Hogwarts Honey and Aunty Marion

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v377/tinkert/?action=view&current=titleplate.jpg)

~~~~

Remus ran his hand along the dust-free surface of the mantel over the living room stove, relishing the silky feel of the highly waxed wood. There was nothing on the mantel but a lantern, its bowl full, its wick trimmed, its chimney polished free of soot and fingerprints. Beside it lay a box of matches.

His hand still resting on the mantel, Remus looked around the room that had been part of his home for more than thirty years. The wood floor shone with wax, its surface as unmarred as that of the mantle. The furnishings were sparse, but homey, and all immaculately clean. A small pile of packing crates stood by the door. 

_Not much,_ Remus mused, _for so many years._

The quarrelsome cries of gulls brought him to the open window. Two herring gulls fought over a mussel that one had dropped on the rocks in front of the house in order to smash its shell. Finally, one grabbed the morsel and took flight, leaving the other picking for scraps.

From this window, Remus could see most of the island that had been the only world he had wanted for most of his life. About forty acres of rock, some tough grass, a couple of stunted bushes, and the squat, solid stone keeper's house and outbuildings. And the lighthouse.

The light was the heart and soul of the island. It was the reason Remus was there, and, given his druthers, the reason he would stay. There were times, in the small hours of the night, when Remus felt that the rhythmic flash of the light was the visual expression of the beat of his own heart.

Lighting the lamp at sunset was keeping a sacred trust, and extinguishing it at dawn brought a sense of relief, a sense of satisfaction that, for another night, the steady pulse of the light had warned sailors of the dangers while simultaneously guiding them home. 

Remus felt humbled by his task. The letters he received thanking him for saving the life of a ship and its crew, for bringing a lost sailor home, almost confused him. It was not about him; it was the light.

Wandering into the kitchen, Remus poured himself another mug of coffee. As with the rest of the house, the kitchen was immaculate. Every surface clean, everything polished and in its place.

In just a few hours, at mid-afternoon, the boat would come bringing the new keeper. The boat would come to take him away. The thought went through Remus like a knife, and he steadied himself with a hand on the counter. 

To distract himself, Remus opened the top-most packing crate. The one that held his journals. Not the official lighthouse ones, those still lined the shelves in the lantern room of the tower. These were his own, started when he had first come to the island at age seven, and inspired by his father's care in keeping the lighthouse logs. When Remus had become keeper, he had continued to keep his own journals. They contained the same information about weather and passing ships, but instead of detailed accounts of oil usage and needed supplies, he recorded his thoughts and feelings. There were also his drawings. Even at seven, his journals were dotted with pictures of fat gulls and awkward starfish. As he got older, the drawings became more refined, more beautiful, capturing more than just the outside appearance of an object. He would sometimes sketch the fishermen who came to visit, or the children of the other islanders who occasionally came to picnic on his rock, and keep him company for a day.

When he was young, his father would take him and his mother to the village on Ragged Island, only eight miles away. There they would spend the day visiting, his mother gossiping with the ladies, and Remus playing with the children. To his mother's discomfort, and the raised eyebrows of the ladies, he preferred to play with the girls, the boys' games being too rough and tumble to suit him. Once he perceived how awkward this made his mother feel, he took to wandering off by himself with his paper and charcoal pencil, drawing anything and everything that caught his interest. 

Usually they would spend the night, and dusk would always find Remus on the headland holding his breath until the light leapt to life. It was a steady beacon back then, shining like a tiny chip of a diamond on the horizon. Once Remus saw it, once he knew the promise had been kept, he would go back to the noise and bustle of the household where they were staying the night.

He enjoyed these trips, but he was always eager to get back to their rock, to make sure his father had gotten on all right without his help, for Remus had, from the first day at the lightstation, been his father's assistant. He couldn't do much at first, but he helped polish the brass oil cans, and finally, when he was eight, his father allowed him to polish the lamps themselves.

As he got older, he took on more and more responsibility, helping his mother with the household chores, and his father with not just the light, but all the other work that went into maintaining a lighthouse station. There were repairs to be made, buildings to whitewash, and even a few lobster pots to tend and fish to catch, the seafood supplementing their otherwise somewhat limited diet. The supply boat came once a month, weather permitting, and his mother learned to keep at least another month's supply of food on hand during the winter, as the boat frequently missed a visit or two. 

When he was ten, a pan of oil had been knocked off the stove, splashing scalding oil over some of his head, shoulder, and hand. His mother had done her best – it was winter and there was no getting off the island for weeks. The resulting scars hadn't been too bad, slanting across his forehead and cheek, and across his shoulder, but his hand had been slightly crippled, the ring and small fingers being curled inward with scar tissue. He felt, sometimes, as though the light had marked him as its own.

Once a year, during the summer, he and his mother would go to the mainland for a week, staying with his mother's sister. They would travel one way on the supply boat and the other with an obliging fisherman. The thirty mile trip took most of the day. The light wasn't visible from the mainland, and Remus would fret each night when he couldn't see its beacon.

But the mainland was fun. It would take Remus a few days to get over the shock of all the people and houses, but he loved wandering the shore, seeing the shipyards and the clipper ships that came from all over. The ship's chandlery was a source of endless fascination, and the owner seemed to like having the quiet boy around who asked thoughtful questions and sketched the things on the shelves.

The time on the mainland passed quickly, but by the end of the week, Remus was always anxious to get back to the island. Was everything all right? Had his father managed without him? He always made the return journey in the bow, hardly breathing until he saw the spike of the tower against the horizon.

And then, when he was fifteen, his parents decided he should spend the winter with his aunt and uncle so he could attend school on the mainland. The whole winter.

He ran his finger over the spines of the journals, one for every year; 1832-1865. Almost every year; there was one missing. Remus ran his finger down the crack where the journal for 1840 should have been. Just before the Christmas of his fifteenth year, his uncle had burned his journal. Several times, he had thought of trying to re-write it, but it had been such an awful, wonderful, painful, frightening, magical year that he had not.

Remus sat on the couch, sipped his coffee and let the feelings and memories of that year wash over him.

His parents had been teaching him at home, of course, but his mother in particular wanted him to go to school, to meet people, _to find a wife._ Well, maybe not just yet, but a girlfriend, someone to court, someone to bring to the rock in a few years.

His father had agreed that being in town would be good for him; he could make friends, become more social. Remus didn't see the point in this. He knew what he wanted from life, and that was to be a keeper like his father. He had no interest in a wife. Truth be told, he hadn't much interest in girls at all.

He had arrived in the house of his aunt and uncle with decidedly mixed feelings. It was exciting to have an entire winter to explore the town and all the shops, to learn new things, and hear stories of distant lands from the sailors. But he would miss the island. He loved the solitude, the cries of the sea birds, the sound of the waves on the rocks, and most of all, the light.

Remus felt awkward at school. There seemed to be almost an entirely different language that the boys used that Remus didn't know. They laughed and joked together and every day, Remus felt more of an outsider. Some of them made fun of his scars, and things were getting really uncomfortable when Sirius had come along.

Sirius.

Remus closed his eyes and tipped his head back on the couch, trembling with the memories.

Sirius was the son of Irish immigrants. He had black hair, flashing gray eyes, and a lovely lilting way of speaking. He was gorgeous, and Remus had fallen hard. Also somewhat of an outsider, Sirius nonetheless became popular for his daring escapades and gregarious nature. And Sirius liked him. Sirius befriended him, drawing Remus into his circle of acquaintances, and covering him with the mantle of his popularity.

He was overwhelmed with feelings for Sirius that he had never even known were possible, along with the guilt of knowing that they were wrong. Remus had tried hard to keep the hero-worship out of his eyes, had tried hard not to stare. Sirius hadn't seemed to notice, for which Remus was grateful.

Then came the Night of the Great Chicken Debacle. Sirius was always naming their adventures, and this one was no exception – although it certainly wasn't intended to be a debacle. Nor were chickens the most memorable thing about that night.

Sirius had what seemed at the time to be the brilliant idea of sneaking into Widow Goodson's yard, swiping a couple of hens from the coop, and slipping them into Mr. Bemis's kitchen. _Why_ this was a good idea, Remus couldn't remember, but as with all of Sirius's ideas, it had seemed like absolute genius at the time.

Things were going well, and they were inside the coop when a lamp was lit in the house, and the widow came storming into the yard brandishing a broom and hollering words she could only have learned from her sailor husband. 

The boys had fled, vaulting the fence and high-tailing it down the alley. All around them dogs awoke and set up a chorus of barking. They finally ducked through a broken board in the back of someone's tool shed, and, trying to control their giggles and their breathing, waited to see if they were pursued.

Pressed against each other in the dark, Remus's back against the warm wall of Sirius's chest, they had hidden. Remus's breath was quieting, along with the barking of the dogs, when he felt something against his backside. He had a moment of confusion, then a flood of embarrassment as he realized that Sirius had an erection. His brain was spinning uselessly when Sirius spoke, his voice low and underlain with laughter, his breath warm on Remus's neck.

"That was perfect!" He was so close, Remus felt the brush of his lips. " _You_ were perfect."

Remus was about to bolt when a warm hand settled on his hip. 

"It's all right, you know."

The breathy voice anchored him to the spot, and what happened next reshaped Remus's world forever.

He and Sirius became inseparable, and he was so deliriously happy that he must have been indiscreet in what he wrote in his journal. All Remus knew was that one evening shortly before Christmas when he returned for supper, his uncle intercepted him in the yard. He had Remus's journal in his hand, and in a low voice quivering with anger, he ordered Remus into the woodshed.

Remus couldn't remember all that his uncle said, but he remembered being told to strip to the waist, and he remembered the bite of the buggy whip as it landed over and over again. He remembered his uncle putting a match to his journal, and he remembered being sent back to the island the following morning with orders never to set foot in his uncle's house again.

His father had rowed out to the fishing boat to retrieve Remus and his trunk, and after they had made the difficult landing on the island and pulled the peapod up on the ways, he led Remus directly into the base of the tower. Remus waited, head hanging in shame, while his father read the letter from his uncle.

"Is this true?" His father's voice was soft, with more sadness than anger.

"Yes, sir." Remus couldn't meet his eyes. He didn't know exactly what the letter said, but he didn't really need to.

"He whipped you?" His father's voice was strained.

"Yes, sir."

"Show me."

Remus shrugged out of his coat, unbuttoned his shirt and winced as the material pulled free of the scabs that had formed over the oozing wounds. He let the shirt fall from his back and turned around, his hands still through the sleeves. For a long moment his father just looked, then he said, "Wait here," and left. Tears pricked the back of Remus's eyes and he ground his teeth together in an effort to hold them back. Disappointing his father was far more painful for him than any whipping.

He heard his father return, and braced himself. His father had never beaten him before, but he had never committed this egregious a sin before, either.

There was the sound of water being wrung from a cloth, and Remus drew breath in a startled hiss when the soft, warm rag started to gently wash the welts on his back. His father was silent the whole time, patting Remus's back dry when he was done, then applying a soothing salve. Finally, as he wiped his hands clean on the rag, he spoke.

"You'd best take care of that shirt yourself." 

Remus turned and his father handed him a clean shirt. He removed the one he'd been wearing, rolling the streaks of blood inside, and slipped into the clean one.

His father gathered the bowl of water, rag and jar of salve. "I'll talk to your mother so she'll not ask you why you won't be returning to school. We won't speak of this again."

"Thank you." Remus was unsure of what to say. 

His father turned to leave.

"I'm sorry, Father." Remus blurted it out, all his anguish in his voice and eyes.

Slowly, his father turned, an odd expression on his face. He looked at Remus for a moment, then gave a single shake of his head and left.

A moment later, Remus followed him through the door into the house. It was quiet; his father was rinsing the rag and bowl in the sink, putting everything away when he was done. 

"Your mother's napping." He answered Remus's unasked question.

That night, his mother had looked puzzled, but not particularly upset, and she'd asked no questions. Remus never knew what his father had told her.

He never wrote to Sirius, and if Sirius wrote, he never received the letter. Ten years later, when next he visited the mainland, he could find no trace of him. The family had gone from the area, he was told, but where they had moved to, he couldn't learn.

~~~~~***~~~~~

Remus got up from the couch and headed to the kitchen. He blew his nose on his handkerchief, and poured another cup of coffee. He thought idly that he shouldn't drink so much of it.

Back in the living room, Remus walked his fingers over the spines of the journals. A year the following January, his father had died. He fell from the lantern walk while cleaning the windows of ice during a storm, and broke his back on the rocks. Remus and his mother found him, and moved him inside, but it was clear there was nothing anyone could do. Able to move only his head and left arm, he had clutched Remus's hand. Remus leaned forward to catch his faltering words.

"Remus...." The word had been barely audible.

"I'll keep the lamps burning, Father, I promise." Remus had choked on the words.

He father looked agitated, and his grip increased. "No. Remus...."

Remus touched his face, as his father sighed out his last breath.

Remus didn't remember much about the next few months. He knew it was recorded in his journal, but he didn't draw it out and read it. Somehow, they had managed, and Remus's mother had been appointed keeper in his father's stead.

It was in March, and they were finally sorting through his father's things, when Remus's world had shifted again.

He heard his mother 'tsk', and looked up to see her holding a folded wool cap in her hands. It was faded, but the gold embroidery was still visible over the visor: "Boston Boys Academy". She turned the cap in her hands.

"I don't know why John kept this. It was his school, of course, but I never got the impression he was very happy there." She held it out. "Do you want it?"

Remus unfolded the cap carefully. His mother went on talking and sorting, but he didn't hear. His father had been a small man, half a head shorter than Remus, who wasn't that tall himself, but the hat he held in his hands was at least two sizes too big even for him. Remus ran his thumb under the cracking leather of the sweat band, and turned it over. The ink was still strong where it had been protected by the band. "Freddy Atwater."

Remus flipped the band back and folded the cap carefully, setting it in the pile of keepsakes. Later in the week, when he was out in the peapod pulling the lobster pots, he took the hat from the pocket of his coat. He'd wrapped it around a rock and tied it with string, and now he held it under water until it became thoroughly saturated. Gently, he opened his hand and let it go, watching it sink through the clear water until it was lost in the depths.

~~~~~***~~~~~

Remus rose and paced the room in agitation. The door was open, and the sun and wind called him outside. It was a beautiful day. He walked around the buildings, making sure, for the hundredth time, that everything was ready for the new keeper. The chicken coop was empty; he hadn't known if the new man would want the birds, so he'd given them to one of the fishermen on Ragged Island. He missed their soft clucks and busy dashing about after bugs.

Restless, Remus went back in the house. He stood staring at the journals, at the journal for 1857 in particular, for a long time. It was quite worn, as though it had been read over many times. He finally sighed and drew it out of the box, settling on the couch again. The journal fell open to January 15th. There was the usual heading about the weather; there was a storm coming, and the waves were running high, driven before a gale wind. Then there was a space before the writing continued.

_Today, the sea brought me a visitor._

~~~~~***~~~~~

The storms had started early that winter. One after another, they roared across the island, battering the light station with rain, sleet, and snow. The supply boat hadn't made the trip in October, had showed up in November, but missed December and January. Remus wasn't terribly worried; he had plenty of food and oil.

The two new Fresnel-Arago clockwork-concentric-wick lamps that had been installed with the first order Fresnel lens the year prior required far less oil to burn than the old system of fifteen lanterns, and the most remarkable thing was that the light was visible at almost four times the distance. Every evening when Remus lit the first lamp – the second was kept ready for later in the night – then set the clockworks in motion to move the lens, his heart would race with the thrill of it. Hundreds of glass prisms caught and focused the light from the five-wick lantern, throwing it over twenty miles out into the darkness. The rotation of the lens gave the light a pulsing flash that would distinguish it from all other lights. Two brilliant flashes, followed by five seconds of steady burn, then two more flashes; that was the unique signature of his light. Once all the lights on the coast of Maine were updated with the new equipment, any sailor with a guide would be able to tell exactly where he was. 

Remus had finished cleaning, polishing and refilling the lamps, and set the lantern room – the work room right beneath the great lens near the top of the tower – to rights for the day. He fixed himself some breakfast, took a brief nap, then climbed the tower to polish the lens. The waves were still building, and he wondered if they'd wash over the island as they had last winter. It was something that had only happened a few times since he'd lived on the island, and while the waves had just barely washed against the walls of the house, it _was_ a bit unsettling. South of him, Matinicus Rock lightstation had been all but washed away a couple of times, but he was higher here, and the waves hit at a different angle.

The lens finished, Remus moved on to clean the inside of the thick glass windows. The outside would be done in the evening, just before lighting the lamps. Finally, he put his rags away, and with the telescope, he scanned the horizon, then worked his way inward, sweeping back and forth, looking for ships. He saw nothing. He was uneasy, though he didn't know why. Again and again, he scanned the waves, and finally caught sight of a retreating sail. It was probably a packet, close-hauled and heading from Halifax to Boston but in no distress. 

Back in the house, Remus put on his coat and went outside. The wind almost blew him over, but he quickly got his balance, and headed toward the semi-protected side of the island where the boathouse and ways were located. Might as well make certain all was secure. The tide was almost all the way out, and while the waves were gentler here, they were still thunderous. 

Remus almost missed it. At first, he thought it was a bundle of seaweed, but then a wave surged, and he saw an arm with a ghostly white hand gesture to him. It was the motion of the water, of course, but Remus felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he scrambled over the slippery rocks to reach the body before the action of the waves took it out to sea again.

He slid the last few inches to the body and felt the barnacles grind into his knee, but he managed to grab a handful of shirt just as the next wave lifted the body and floated it free of the rocks. Remus tugged it toward him, and as the water receded, he felt the weight of the man – it was indeed a man – sag against his chest. The next wave coming was larger than the previous one, and Remus cradled the man's face against his chest, covering the nose and mouth with his hand, and ducking his own head as the wave crashed over them. He wedged his feet firmly between the rocks and pushed himself back, struggling against the power of the water as it surged completely over them. It was icy cold, and when it drew back, Remus shook his soaked hair out of his eyes, hoisted the limp body as best he could, and clawed his way above the wave action. Once free of the surging water, it was easier to fight his way over the slippery rocks. The freezing spray drove against his skin, but Remus was sweating with effort by the time his had his prize above the tide line.

Collapsing beside the still form, he put one ear to the narrow chest, covered the other, and held his breath. There was a heartbeat, faint but steady, and Remus turned the man's head to the side while he pressed gently on the distended stomach. A great belch of water gushed out, and the man started to cough and retch. Remus steadied him until the fit passed, but unfortunately, the man lapsed into stillness again.

After feeling over the man's arms and legs, Remus was fairly sure that nothing was broken, though there was a large lump on the side of the man's head. Remus pulled one arm around his shoulders and heaved them both upright. Fortunately, the man was no taller than Remus, and slightly built, but it still took great effort to bring them both inside the snug, stone house.

Remus kicked the stout door shut, and it immediately became quieter, the roaring of the wind and waves muffled by the thick walls and shutters. He stretched the man out on the living room floor, and worked quickly to cut away his sodden clothes; he'd pulled more than one unfortunate from the sea, and he knew that restoring warmth to the body was more important than almost anything else. 

His own bedding was on a warming rack behind the stove, and he grabbed the blanket and rolled the man snugly, moving him as close to the stove as he could. There were soapstones warming in the oven of the kitchen stove, and he placed them along side the body, wrapping everything in another layer of quilt.

After that, he looked to himself. He stripped off his wet garments and hung them by the stove, redressed, and then fetched the remains of the man's clothing. They were destroyed; even before Remus had cut them, they were in tatters. The shirt was in ribbons, and one leg was missing from the knee down on the trousers. Remus had noticed several cuts and scratches on one of the man's legs.

He washed his own cuts, being careful to clean out any bits of weed and shell. His knuckles were skinned and his hands had several cuts, and one knee and shin were scraped raw, but it was no worse than other injuries he had sustained when trying to reclaim something the sea had not wanted to give up.

Remus fixed himself a cup of tea. Since the man was still alive, he couldn't have been in the water for very long. He certainly wasn't dressed like a fisherman; the trousers had been a fine wool, and the shirt looked made to order. Could he have fallen from the packet Remus had seen? It hardly seemed likely, but the man had come from _somewhere_ and there were no papers of any kind in his pockets. Remus sighed. He'd have to wait and see. _If_ the man survived.

He went back to the living room and checked on his guest. The blue tinge was gone from the thin lips, and the skin was starting to take on a little color.

Remus moved the bed from the spare room in next to the living room stove, and made it up with clean linens. One of his spare nightshirts would fit the man, and he carefully unwrapped the blankets. The thin body was now warm to the touch, and Remus was relieved. That was more than half the battle. When he had tugged the nightshirt into place, he washed and bandaged the cuts on the leg, pulled on a pair of thick wool socks, then carefully combed the seaweed from the long black hair, cleaned and dressed the wound that bisected the lump behind the left ear, and lifted the man into bed. He re-heated the soapstones and slipped them under the covers. The man appeared to be sleeping.

Suddenly tired, Remus realized he'd missed a meal. He neither ate nor slept on a normal person's schedule, but he did, nonetheless, need to do both. Waiting for some of yesterday's chowder to warm, Remus had a quick over-all wash. If he didn't, he knew the sea salt on his skin would begin to irritate in a few hours, making him itchy and miserable. 

Clean and fed, Remus checked his guest again, and this time he was sure the man was asleep, and not just unconscious. Remus stretched out on the couch on the other side of the stove and napped.

He was up again in less than two hours. Climbing the tower, Remus checked the sea. The tide was about half way in, and already almost as far up the rocks as it usually was at the high mark. The wind was driving the water, and he knew that on the next low cycle, it wouldn't be able to recede as much as normal, making the following tide even higher.

A door allowed passage from the tower directly into the storage shed that connected the house and the light. Through another door on the leeward side, he entered a small annexed wooden shed, one corner of which he had enclosed to protect his chickens. The four hens ran to greet him, clucking excitedly and then crowding the little door to the outside. He'd kept them in these last few days, and they weren't happy.

"I'm sorry, ladies." Remus scooped the ice out of their water dish and gave them some corn. "You'd blow away out there."

He collected two lovely warm, brown eggs, putting them gently in the pockets of his heavy coat, and returned to the storage room. From there, he went outside, bracing himself against the cutting wind and icy spray. 

Yesterday, he had closed the four inch thick shutters on the windward side of the house. Now, with the rising tide, he felt it best to be safe and close all the shutters. They would protect the glass from the water should the waves drive over the island, but Remus hated closing up the house completely; it made it so dark inside.

Once inside again, Remus dropped the bar across the door, then with hands that knew their way even in the most complete darkness, he found and lit the betty lamp that stood ready on the little shelf by the door to the house. The roaring of the wind and sea was muffled by the sturdy walls of the house, but it was still noisy.

Remus ladled out the sludge-like lard oil from one of the 100-pound tin butts into two one-and-a-half-gallon polished brass cans with the long spouts. That much would keep the lamps burning all night – a huge improvement on the old system. Carrying one can and the betty lamp, he went into the kitchen and hoisted the oil can to the top of the stove. He added more coal to the firebox, and stirred the fire to life, put the eggs carefully in a small bowl, then went to check on his guest. 

The stranger was now curled on his side, and Remus took the fact that he'd changed position to be a good sign. He appeared to be sleeping soundly, his face relaxed and at peace. Remus studied him in the soft glow of the lamp. The man was thin, his face long with sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. His nose was like the proud prow of a ship, but the rest of his features were strong enough that it didn't overpower. Remus reached out a finger and gently moved the hair where it was adhering to the salve he'd put on the wound. Without thinking, he then smoothed the long strands off the sleeping face. 

Suddenly aware of what he was doing, Remus jerked his hand back, balling it into a fist and shoving it in his pocket. He must be out of his mind, touching a stranger like that; it was unforgivably rude. Certainly, he had stripped the man of his clothing earlier, but that was a life-saving act, and in no way as personal. Remus refused to consider what had motivated him to reach out for that stern face, and turning abruptly, he shoveled some coal into the stove, then went to get ready for his night's work.

The oil was warming slowly, so Remus grabbed his mittens off their hook by the door, dropped them into a bowl, and poured hot water from the kettle over them. Dumping it all in the sink, he then wrung out the mittens and put them on. He slapped his hands together to remove any remaining excess water, then headed for the lighthouse. Before climbing the stairs, he lit the small stove at the base of the tower. It wouldn't keep it warm in the lantern room, but it would keep it tolerable, and Remus didn't mind the extra expenditure for the coal. He placed the other gallon of oil atop this stove; he wouldn't need it until the middle of the night.

At the top of the long, iron spiral staircase was the lantern room, where all was laid out in readiness. He collected his cleaning rags, stuffing them in the big pockets of his coat, pulled his knit cap down well over his ears, and shouldered his way out the door into the gale that whipped around the gallery. He fought his way up the ladder to the upper gallery, and took a minute to tie a rope around his waist, securing the other end to the railing. After his father's death, he had promised his mother he would always do this, and more than once, it had saved him from a fall.

Moving around the gallery, refastening the rope as needed, Remus cleaned the thick glass. It was starting to snow, the wind driving the tiny particles with such ferocity they felt like knives against his skin. The heat from the lens might be enough to keep ice from forming, but if not, Remus would be out here every hour to remove it. The light must not be diminished.

Remus heaved a sigh of relief as he pulled the door shut at last. He shivered as he took off his cap and shook out his hair. His hands were about the only warm part of his body, thanks to the impervious wet wool that encased them.

Moving now with a sense of urgency – the storm was darkening the skies early – Remus fetched the warm oil from the kitchen, climbed the stairs, then the final ladder-like steps to the lens. He filled the smaller lucerne from the big can, then opening the hinged panel, stepped inside. The space inside the lens was more than twice as tall as Remus, and about eight feet wide. He stood on a small platform in the center, and filled one of the lamps, carefully so as not to spill a drop, making several trips outside the lens to fill the small can. Finished, he went down to the lamp room to wind the clockwork that would keep the oil pressurized, then it was back up to light the five concentric wicks of the lamp. He adjusted the wicks minutely as he went, not letting them smoke. When they were all lit, he set the tall glass chimney in place, wiped off any lingering fingerprints, and adjusted the wicks a final time. 

Satisfied, he stepped out of the lens, fastened the panel and backed down the steep steps to the lantern room once more. Leaning on the handle of the winch to relive the pressure on the locking pin, Remus removed the iron bar and eased off the handle. For a moment, nothing happened, then the eighty pound weight on the end of the cable overcame the inertia of all the gears, and the huge lens turned, moving silently on its moat of mercury.

With a sense of wonder that never dimmed, Remus looked up at the lens. Turning slowly, the hundreds of prisms caught the light and threw it out into the teeth of the gale, warning sailors of the rocky ledges, and guiding lost fisherman home.

Heaving a sigh of satisfaction, Remus set about tidying the lantern room. The room was small, containing a work bench that held the tools of the lightkeeper's trade. There was a high stool to go with it, and other assorted items were stacked neatly against the wall. Remus's one concession to comfort was a soft chair that a generous fisherman had helped him lug up the stairs. While Remus didn't need to stay in the tower all night, the clockworks for both the lamp and the lens had to be wound every hour, so most nights, Remus simply read, or dozed in the big chair, his feet propped on a wooden crate. During the long winter nights, one lamp didn't hold enough fuel for the entire night, so the second lamp had to be lit in the small hours of the morning. Occasionally, he would go below to feed the fires, or get something to eat, and midway through the night, bring up the other can of oil. Around one or two, Remus would wiggle up the narrow ladder inside the rotating lens, fill the other lamp about half way, then extinguish the first. The first lamp wouldn't be quite empty yet, so it would still serve as back-up in case anything happened to the second lamp. They had separate tanks and pressurization systems, so if one failed completely, the light would still burn. Remus had become very quick at changing over the lamps, but had to be careful, as standing on the tiny platform with the lens rotating around him tended to give him vertigo.

Remus peered out the window, trying to make out the rocks below in the gathering gloom. The light flashed over the island reflecting off the driving snow, and Remus could see the waves swirling in pools on the flat rocks twenty feet from his door. The tide would have crested now, so the waves would come no higher tonight. Thirteen hours from now might be a different story if the wind continued to hold the water against the shore.

One more check of the lamp, and Remus trotted down the stairs to the house. On a normal night, the sound of his boot heels against the iron steps would ring loudly in the tower, but tonight, his tread was silent, overwhelmed by the howling of wind and crashing of wave. Muffled as it was by the thick tower walls, it sounded as a surging, pulsing roar, rather like a great beast, trying to claw its way inside. Remus hardly heard it anymore, so familiar was the noise.

Entering the house, he had barely closed the door when he heard a thump from the living room. Almost drowned out by the storm, it was noticeable only because of its proximity. Holding the lamp high, Remus entered the dark room.

The stranger was pulling himself up from the floor by the bed frame. Shaky and pale as a ghost, his eyes huge in the darkness, he nonetheless held himself with dignity.

"Where am I?" His voice was a rough croak, but steady enough.

Remus set the lamp down and held up both hands in reassurance. "You're at Bird Rock Lightstation." He gave a small bow. "Keeper Lupin at your service, sir."

When the stranger simply looked more confused, Remus went on. "I plucked you from the sea several hours ago." He gestured vaguely. "You have a rather large lump on your head, and were quite senseless. I apologize for not leaving you a lamp; I thought you would be sleeping for some time."

The man looked around the room, then slowly sank to the floor in a faint. With a small cry, Remus sprang forward and caught him before his head could strike the boards, and gathering the man in his arms, hoisted him back onto the bed. He stirred as Remus was straightening the quilts, a frown on his face.

"Sorry." He raised a hand to his head. "Hurts. Can't remember...."

"Rest." Remus soothed him. "Plenty of time to sort it out later."

The man murmured something, his face smoothing into sleep.

Remus put on a pot of coffee, sliced himself a big wedge of cornbread and toasted it on the stove. When all was ready, he spread a layer of jam on the bread, folded it in a napkin, filled his big, chipped mug with coffee, and went to check his guest one last time. The man seemed to be sleeping peacefully again, so Remus left a lamp burning by the bed and headed through the dark storeroom to the tower. He didn't need a light; he knew where everything was and, once in the tower, there was enough light from the lamp above to guide his steps.

Back in the lantern room, he took down the log and carefully entered notes as to the time of his sighting of the sail, the probability of what ship it belonged to, and then the fact that he had pulled a man from the sea, and in what condition he had been. With all that recorded, he went on to note the weather and tide conditions, along with the time he had lit the lamp, and how much oil he had put in the wells. 

When the log was up to date and he had tidied away the last crumbs from his meal, Remus started winding the clockworks. The ones for the lamp were simple and quick, but the ones for the lens took considerably longer. He'd stop after several turns of the crank to let the weight take up the slack and once more propel the lens around its track so it wouldn't stop turning. Even though the room was cold, he was still sweating by the time he'd finished.

Climbing the ladder-like stairs to the lens room, Remus shielded his eyes from the brilliance of the light while checking the windows. So far, the snow was not sticking, but melting and running down in rivulets. No need to go out in the gale winds to scrape off ice. Yet.

The cycles of the long night began. On a clear night at this time of year, the light burned for just over fifteen hours. With the storm extending the darkness, his night could be almost eighteen hours in length. 

Several more windings of the clockworks and checking of the windows – still clear – and Remus decided to return to his guest. 

Upon entering the living room, Remus went first to stir the fire and add coal to the small stove. Finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and turned to find his visitor watching him.

"Hello." He gave a shy smile. "Feeling better?"

"I am, thank you." The man cleared his throat. "Might I have some water?"

"Of course." Remus went to the kitchen and poured a glass from the big pitcher he kept by the pump. When he returned, the stranger was struggling to sit up.

"Let me." Remus sat on the edge of the bed, slid an arm under the thin shoulders and helped the man up. He passed the glass of water and then steadied the man's hands as they were shaking rather a lot. As the man sipped, the shaking of his hands stopped, but he didn't move away from Remus, his shoulder resting solidly against Remus's chest. Remus withdrew his steadying hand, but let his arm stay around the man's shoulders.

"How's that?" His own voice was a little thick. The warm weight against his chest felt much too good for his peace of mind.

The man nodded, his hands and the glass coming to rest in his lap. For a moment, Remus thought he might rest his head against him, but he straightened slightly instead. Remus moved away to a near-by chair.

"It's seems I am much indebted to you." The man's voice, the croakiness gone, was deep and rich. Remus felt a dangerous shiver go down his spine.

"Not at all. That's why I'm here, and company is always welcome, no matter how unconventional the method of arrival may be."

A small smile stretched the thin lips. "I'm Severus Snape of London. Other details are a bit fuzzy still, but I'm quite sure of that."

"It will come back to you, in time. I'm Keeper Lupin."

A dark eyebrow rose. "And does Keeper Lupin have a first name?"

Remus felt his cheeks warm and was glad the room was dimly lit. "Sorry. That'd be Remus. Remus Lupin." He came forward and extended his hand.

Severus's grip was firm, despite his weakened condition, and Remus felt his heart rate increase. "Are you ready for a little soup? Or is it too soon yet?"

"Perhaps a little soon." Severus looked behind himself, and Remus moved to prop up the pillows so he could lean back. He tried not to notice how the dark eyes followed him. "You wouldn't have some tea, by any chance? My head hasn't felt this poorly since Lord Malfoy's last New Year's Eve party." He looked a bit surprised by his own words, and cocked his head in thought. "But that seems a long time ago." He frowned in concentration. "I missed it this year, I believe, because I had to sail for America. I am in America?" He turned to Remus who nodded.

"The state of Maine, actually. I saw a sail just before I found you. I believe it was the packet from Halifax to Boston. Would you have been on board?"

Severus's face relaxed. "Yes. Yes, I was. Something had broken loose on deck, and the mate asked for all hands to assist." He frowned again. 

"What is it?" Remus asked gently. "Did you lose your footing?"

"No." Severus shook his head and then winced. "I'm fairly certain I was pushed."

 _"Pushed?_ That's a strong accusation. Why would someone push you?"

"A good question. I can't seem to remember why I was making the journey, though I feel there's an urgency to it." He sighed, then looked hopeful. "You said there was tea?"

"Oh, yes, sorry." Remus headed for the kitchen, his mind buzzing with questions.

When he returned with the steaming mug, Severus took it gratefully. Clasping the hot drink in both hands, he took a large swallow, then froze, an odd look on his face.

"Not good?" Remus fidgeted.

Severus swallowed. "A bit sweet."

"Oh." Remus laughed a little. "I thought the sugar might do you good."

"Perhaps it will." Severus took another swallow and sighed, a contented look on his face.

Severus looked around the room, then at the heavily shuttered windows. "Why is it so noisy?"

Remus started slightly. He was so used to the sounds of the storm that he didn't even notice them. "The storm has increased. You're hearing the wind and the surf. We're on an island – a rock, mostly."

"Is it night time?"

"Yes. Almost midnight."

There was a rattling against the shutters, as though someone had thrown a handful of pebbles at the wood. Severus's eyes widened in question.

"It's snowing. Or it may be mixing with sleet. Or," he hesitated a fraction, "it may be spray from the waves."

"From the _waves?"_ The mug of tea rested in his lap, seemingly forgotten.

"Well, perhaps, although the tide turned almost an hour ago. Sometimes the storms push the water rather high."

"I see." Severus took another swallow of tea, and Remus noticed that his hands were trembling again.

"We're quite safe here, really. Well, if the tide comes too high, we can just move to the tower, but there's no real danger. At least," Remus fumbled for words, "the house has never been washed away."

Severus stared at him for a moment, then took a deep breath. "I shall bow to your greater experience, and trust you implicitly." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm not sure I have the same confidence in the forces of nature, however."

Remus felt a flush of pleasure. "More tea?"

"Please." Severus held out the empty mug. "With a bit less sugar? Perhaps... none?"

"Of course, sorry." Remus headed for the kitchen, a smile on his face.

He made the tea in the dimly lit kitchen, his mind and body alive with thoughts and feelings that had lain dormant for years. He returned with the tea, determined to avoid all physical contact with his intriguing guest, lest improper thoughts intrude.

"I'll need to tend the light soon. Is there anything I can get you before I go?" He was careful not to let their fingers brush as he handed over the mug.

Severus sipped the tea, and sighed appreciatively, then looked around. "Um, yes, actually. Is there...?"

Remus blushed; he should have thought of that. "Yes. Off the storage shed."

Severus set the tea aside, turned back the quilts and swung his feet to the floor. When he rose unsteadily to his feet and had to grab the bed for support, Remus realized his decision to avoid contact had been for naught.

"Let me help." He moved forward and offered his arm.

Severus gripped it with both hands and leaned against his shoulder. "Not as strong as I thought." His tone was apologetic.

"Small wonder." Remus picked up the lamp and they proceeded at a shuffling pace to the kitchen door. 

"Wait." Remus made sure Severus was steady on his feet before disengaging his arm and grabbing a coat off one of the pegs by the door. He draped it over Severus's shoulders before opening the door and helping his guest into the store room, then into the annexed shed. 

"There you are." He gestured with the lamp toward the door of the WC.

Snape made his way in slowly, and left the door open a few inches for light. Remus closed his eyes and tried not to think.

Severus was weaker on the return trip, and Remus put an arm around his waist while Severus clung to his shoulder, shivering with cold and exertion. Remus held him close and pretended it was all for his guest's benefit.

When Severus was safely back in bed, the quilt up under his chin, the hot mug of tea in his hands and a warm stone at his feet, Remus took his leave and ran up the steps to the lantern room, doing his best to outpace his tumultuous thoughts.

Once in the tower, his work occupied him completely, and when he finished tending the light he returned to the house, feeling at peace again. He checked his guest and was relieved to find him sleeping soundly. 

Remus had not been able to see the height of the tide on the rocks, but he could hear it, and that had given him concerns for the morning's high water, so between periods of tending the light that night, he packed up some food, filled containers with water, and lugged it all up the fifty-eight steps to the lantern room. He also opened the trap door in the storage room and dropped down the few feet to the cover of his cistern. He did his best to ensure that it was tightly sealed. If the house flooded, and sea water seeped into his drinking water supply, they could be in great difficulty. 

He wasn't worried about the house washing away, and he had spent time during the summer tightening up the shutters and doors, but if the waves reached the house, as they had twice in his tenure here, there might be a little flooding. With that thought in mind, he packed rags under the doors and put foodstuffs up on counters and tables. His hens, considerably more vulnerable in their wooden shed, he stuffed gently into a crate and carried up the tower as well.

He finished his preparations at about four-thirty in the morning and, after catching up the log book, he took short naps between tending the light. He always slept lightly in the soft chair, and never for more than about thirty minutes at a time. One ear was always listening for changes in the sound of the clockworks and the weather. 

Before the coming of the dawn, he had been outside twice to clean the snow and ice off the windows. The wind was almost intolerable, and he was glad of the rope tethering him securely to the railing. 

When it was light enough to see the ground beneath him, he discovered it was even worse than he had expected. The wind had held the tide in, and now the pull of nature's forces were bringing it in a steady march toward the house. His home and the tower were forty feet above mean high tide, and there was a fairly straight drop to the water at that end of the island, but with only a hour still to go before the tide crested, the waves were washing half-way to the house already. His boathouse, considerably closer to the tide line, was already partly underwater, but seemed to be holding up. It wouldn't get the same hammering from the waves, being on the leeward side of the island, so Remus felt it would probably not sustain too much damage. A little water wouldn't hurt it.

He doused the lamp and, forgoing his morning chores, he skipped down the steps to the house and his neglected guest.

He found Severus in the kitchen preparing tea.

"You're much better, then?" He couldn't help the grin that split his face.

"Very much." Severus sipped his tea. "May I make you some?"

Remus shook his head. "Coffee for me." He moved to put the pot on.

"I think," he drew a deep breath, "that we should move to the tower." Seeing Severus's eyes widen, he went on in a hurry. "Oh, I still think the house is safe enough, that is, that it won't wash away, but.... Well, I think it might be better to be completely safe."

"Which we will be. In the tower." Severus spoke slowly.

"Yes." Remus gave a decisive nod. "I'll get you some clothes. We look to be about the same height, but you might need a belt."

"Are we in a hurry?" As he asked the question, a wave hit the house with a solid thud. A little water seeped under the kitchen door. Severus set down his mug. "I see."

While Severus was dressing, Remus banked the fires in the stoves, used the WC and managed to gulp down his coffee. In no time, Severus was ready, head held high. 

"After you."

Remus grinned and led him through the store room and into the tower. There was more noise here; the walls were thicker, but sound echoed in the tower. Severus looked up the long flight of steps.

"Little at a time. No rush." Remus let Severus go first, ready to steady him if he faltered.

They took the climb in stages, and three-quarters of the way up, Severus sagged against the wall. 

"Sit." Remus helped Severus turn and drop to the iron step. The man was pale and out of breath.

"Not so much better after all." Severus shoved the hair out of his face..

Remus shook his head. "You're doing fine. Last night, you couldn't even stand on your own; I'm quite impressed."

Severus huffed, a sound that, had he not been out of breath, would have clearly been a derisive snort. A few more deep breaths and he pulled himself upright. He moved up a step, clinging tight to the railing, then paused and looked back at Remus. 

Without thinking, Remus moved up beside him and slipped an arm around his waist. Severus gripped his shoulder. 

"Almost there." Remus carefully didn't look at Severus's face, so close to his own, as they climbed the last few steps one at a time.

In the lantern room at last, Remus helped Severus sink into the big chair. Severus closed his eyes and tipped his head back, sighing deeply. Remus filled a cup with water from one of the jugs he'd brought up and gave it to Severus, who drank deeply and then seemed to fall asleep. Remus took the cup before it fell from the limp hand, threw a quilt over the sleeping man, and set about his chores.

After the clockworks were cleaned, oiled and covered with cloths to keep off the dust, Remus brought down the lamps one at a time, emptying the unused oil from the tanks, polishing the brass and glass and trimming the wicks. When they were back in place, he donned his long-sleeved apron and climbed up to polish the lens itself. The apron was not to keep his clothes clean – though it did a good job of it – but rather to protect the lens from being scratched by the buttons on his coat.

He was almost finished when Severus's head appeared, rising through the hole in the platform as he climbed the steep steps. His brows were drawn together in a scowl, but as he turned, and his eyes fell on the lens, his brow smoothed and his eyes opened in a look of wonder.

"This is magnificent!" He pressed back against the handrail in front of the windows, taking in the sight of the twelve foot high, eight foot wide lens.

"I have seen smaller examples of the art of Fresnel before, but nothing approaching this scale. How many prisms are there?" Severus moved around the narrow platform, face alight.

Remus beamed. While people were often impressed by the size of the lens, not many seemed to have his appreciation for its beauty. Had he not already started to think of Severus as being special, this would have done the trick.

"Eight hundred and twenty-four."

"Surely you don't polish them all every day?" Severus had completed his circuit of the lens and stood next to Remus.

"Every day," Remus affirmed, giving the last piece of glass a wipe and stuffing the rag in his pocket.

A larger than normal wave struck the base of the tower, sending and echoing boom reverberating up to the top. Severus's face regained the set look it had worn when he first appeared. He cleared his throat.

"I was wondering. That is... I was looking out the windows of the room below...." His eyes were fixed on Remus's face. "I didn't see any land."

"No, you wouldn't in this storm. Ragged Island is the closest, and it's eight miles to the North."

Severus seemed to be struggling with something. "I meant... here." He gestured vaguely toward his feet, still not looking out the huge windows.

"Oh!" Remus smiled. "No, the island comes to a point here, and the windows look out to the sides." He turned around. "The island and house are this way." He waved out over an expanse of boiling waves. 

Severus cautiously looked down. "It's not... that is.... I thought it might be larger." His voice was strained.

"It is. Normally. Ah, a good bit of it is under water at the moment." He moved a little and pointed. "See there? When the waves recede, you can see the roof of the boathouse. The island is about forty acres." He said the last a bit lamely. Only a smallish area around the house was not being covered with the surge of each wave. 

He checked his pocket watch. "The tide has turned now, and I believe the wind is slacking somewhat, so the water will recede." He tried to sound as casual as possible; Severus looked a bit unnerved.

"Does the water frequently come this high?"

"No. This is quite unusual." He rested his hand on the railing. "There's nothing to worry about, really." He knew he didn't sound very convincing, given the mix of incredulity and fear on Severus's face when he turned to him.

He was casting about for something to say when Severus's eyes went wide, and his face froze in a pale mask. His hand came up and gripped Remus's wrist with vice-like strength. Remus turned to see what Severus was looking at.

A short way out, and rolling in fast, was a huge wall of water. It was at least three times the height of the other waves, almost the height of where they stood in the tower.

"A rogue wave." Remus raised his voice over the whistle of the wind in the storm-proof vent in the roof. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Severus's face was stiff with terror, but his eyes flicked for a moment to Remus's face before fixing back on the huge wave. His grip increased on Remus's wrist, crushing the bones together painfully, but otherwise he didn't move. Remus edged close to him, and set a hand lightly on Severus's shoulder.

The sight of the wave bearing down on them filled Remus with excitement, but not fear. The ocean was too familiar for its bluster and swagger to alarm him. 

Severus didn't blink as the wave tripped over the rocks below the water, crested, and fell over the island. It slammed into the tower mere feet below the windows, spray washing up over the glass, and the force of it making the sturdy structure tremble. 

Remus looked down; the house had vanished under the deep green water. Severus's eyes followed Remus's, and Remus was sure that Severus stopped breathing. Remus had to admit, this had never happened before in his life-time, but he still wasn't overly concerned. The builders of the house had taken this possibility into account when they had made the walls a foot thick, and Remus was careful each summer to see all was in good repair.

"I hope we don't get too much water down the chimneys. It'll make a terrible mess." Remus kept his voice casual.

Severus made a choking sound. But then the water was vanishing, streaming off the roof and swirling in puddles around the walls.

"I'll have to get more dirt for my garden next spring, too." Remus leaned forward to see better, his chest momentarily brushing Severus's back. "Oh, good. The shed's still there." And indeed, the wooden shed that housed the chickens and the WC was still braced against the back wall of the house.

He felt a deep shudder go through Severus, and the hand on his wrist relaxed. Remus meant to lift his own hand off Severus's shoulder, but somehow it trailed down the narrow back a bit, not giving up contact until it had dropped below Severus's shoulder blades.

"You must be starving." Remus gestured for Severus to precede him down the narrow steps. 

Severus stared at him for a moment, then tipped his head back and gave a short bark of laughter. "You are a wonder, Keeper Lupin. Are you truly as casual as you seem to be in the midst of this fury?"

Remus felt his face warm. "It's all in what you're used to, I assure you; I would be gibbering with fear were I to find myself suddenly adrift in the streets of London."

Back in the lantern room, Remus fixed them large squares of cornbread and jam while he heated some leftover fish chowder on a small burner.

"Not a very conventional breakfast," Remus commented as he passed Severus the hot soup.

"As you've been up all night, wouldn't this be supper?" Severus tasted the hearty mix of potatoes, onions and fish and smiled. "Excellent."

"Oh. Well, I don't exactly have a normal schedule, I guess." Remus smiled. "I just eat when I'm hungry."

Severus sighed in satisfaction as he set the empty bowl aside. "I tend to forget to eat." He smiled at the expression on Remus's face. "I'm not this thin because I'm consumptive, or even an ascetic." He shrugged. "Just no appetite most of the time."

"I see," Remus murmured, though he certainly didn't. He didn't have a regular schedule, but he was certain he'd never _forgotten_ to eat.

He started to clear things away when a mighty yawn overtook him. Severus took the bowls from his hands. 

"You need to sleep. I can at least do this much."

Suddenly overtaken with fatigue, Remus merely nodded. He was spreading a couple of blankets on the floor when Severus interrupted, insisting he take the chair. He shook his head.

"I'll sleep fine here." He gestured toward a crate. "I brought up some books."

Severus's eyes went wide. "You lugged books all the way up the stairs just for me to read?"

Remus grinned. "Well, me too. If we're up here long enough. But I don't think we will be." He cocked his head. "The wind is really dropping, and the snow seems to have stopped. We should be able to go down in a few hours." He yawned again. "At which point, I imagine I'll discover I have a mess to clean up."

Severus just shook his head as Remus made himself comfortable and pulled a quilt over himself. Almost immediately, Remus was asleep.

Three hours later, Remus was awake and, as was his habit, instantly alert. He and Severus went down to the house, and Remus was pleased to see that his efforts at maintenance were well rewarded. Only a small amount of water had seeped under the door and around the windows on the windward side of the house. 

The living room stove was completely out, a small amount of oily water and ash puddled around the base. The kitchen stove had fared better, and while a little water had come down the chimney, it was still lit. Remus soon had both stoves going and the house well on its way to being cozy again. 

Remus went out into the gale and opened the shutters on the leeward side so they wouldn't have to rely solely on lamps for light, and while he cleaned the floors, Severus collected the wet rags and hung them on racks by the stove to dry.

During a meal that included eggs, salt pork, biscuits and some of Remus's preserved tomatoes, Remus noticed that Severus seemed to be uneasy in his clothes, and scratched his head several times. Concluding that it was the salt and not just the healing cuts and scrapes that were causing the discomfort, he dragged out his wash tub and suggested Severus have a bath. 

The metal tank that hugged the back of the stove had plenty of hot water, and after supplying soap and towels, Remus, to keep from thinking about what was going on in his kitchen, tackled the shed. He cleaned out the wet straw from the hen pen – the shed had leaked more than the house – but didn't spread fresh. He thought he'd better wait another tide before bringing the hens back down from the safety of the tower. They didn't like it up there, squashed together in their crate, but he'd rather know they were safe. The barometer was refusing to rise, and Remus had no idea if the storm would worsen.

Finished with the shed, he knocked cautiously on the kitchen door, and was bidden enter. Severus was just stepping out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his hips. _Skinny as a plucked chicken_ his mother would have said, but to Remus's eyes, he was a visual feast. Lots of pale smooth skin, a smattering of black hair on his chest, trailing down his abdomen to disappear beneath the towel that was hanging from jutting hip bones. Remus averted his eyes.

He got salve and fresh bandages, and cared for Severus's wounds in silence. If Severus noticed the trembling of Remus's fingers, he made no comment.

The winter days were short, and all too soon, Remus was closing the shutters again, then sprinting up the long stairway to wash the outsides of the windows, light the lamps and set the great lens in motion. He caught up his logs and tidied the room, making sure the hens had water and corn, then, after winding the clockworks, returned to the house to make dinner for the two of them.

There was ham, potatoes, and green beans from Remus's pantry. His mother had taught him how to preserve most of the vegetables from his garden, and he would buy more from the islanders to ensure a well stocked pantry for the winter. He also dried some of the apples and wild blueberries the islanders brought him, as well as turning them into preserves. His mother had made certain that Remus had all the domestic skills needed to take good care of himself, realizing that he was not inclined to take a wife. 

After cleaning up, banking the fires, and stuffing the now dry rags around the doors and windows again, they returned to the tower for the night. Remus chastised himself severely for his selfishness when he felt disappointment that Severus no longer needed his help to gain the lamp room. Severus stopped only once to rest, and Remus congratulated him on his rapidly returning strength. Severus gave him a small smile, and admitted that even before his dip in the ocean, he would no doubt have been winded after climbing the long stairs.

"How many times a day do you traverse these steps?" Severus almost had his breath back.

Remus thought. "Eight or twelve, I guess. Depends." He shrugged; he'd never really thought about it.

"Well, no wonder you're so fit." Severus's eyes flickered down over Remus's body, then back up. 

Remus felt his face flame, and moved quickly to tend to his duties in order to hide his confusion. He would not, _could not_ read anything into that look. He couldn't help feeling self conscious as he wound up the clockworks for the lens. Even with the long handle of the crank and the gearing, he had to strain to wind the fifty-five foot cable with its heavy weight onto the drum. He removed his coat when he did this, as it was hard work, and carefully did not look at Severus to see it he was watching. Remus wasn't sure if he wanted him to be, or dreaded that he might be. Remus hadn't felt this off-balance since... since.... 

_No._ He would not think of that time in his life. It was an anomaly, it was wrong, and it was past.

Donning his wool coat again, Remus grabbed his telescope, and took himself and his churning thoughts to the deck by the lens. He was half-way up when Severus's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"May I come up as well?"

Remus started, realizing that he had not spoken to Severus before he started his climb. How rude of him.

"Yes, of course." He was a bit breathless in his confusion. "Just shield your eyes from the light. It can be blinding when the bulls-eye lenses come around."

He checked the windows for ice – it had started to snow again – then rested his glass on the railing where he'd made a small mark. Dropping to one knee, he swept the glass back and forth in a narrow arc.

"What are you looking for?" Severus's question made Remus more aware than he wanted to be of the man standing close to his shoulder. He didn't take his eye from the glass, as he really didn't want to know if he was capable of raising his eyes to Severus's face, or if they would stall at the level of the belt buckle by his left ear.

"Matinicus Lightstation." He frowned as he looked, not yet spotting the tiny point of light. "Matinicus Rock is lower than we are here, and last year, in a storm of less ferocity than this one, the waves washed over the house. Keeper Burgess was away." 

"How could he be away?"

"He has family on the Rock, and the supply boat hadn't come for two months. They were running out of food, so he sailed for the mainland. Twenty miles in an open boat in high seas. Another storm came in, and it was two weeks before he could return to the island."

"The light was untended for two weeks?" Severus sounded incredulous.

"Oh, no." Caught up in his story, Remus sat back on his heel and looked up. "Abbie, his sixteen year old daughter, has been his helper since she was a small child and they first came to the Rock. She often tends the light in her father's short absences, but this time...." Remus had to stop and clear his throat. "They have two towers, Severus, and still use the old multiple-lamp and reflector method. They'll be getting a Fresnel this year coming, but for now, there are fourteen lamps in each tower. _Twenty-eight_ lamps she kept burning the long nights for two weeks, even though the waves washed over the house at times." He shook his head in wonder. "And that's while running the house during the day, as well. Her mother is an invalid, and she has two young sisters. They were almost out of food by the time her father returned, but she never let the light fail." He took a deep breath and put his eye back to the glass. "Last night was worse than any last winter. I'm a bit concerned...."

He stopped the sweep of the glass and crowed in delight. "There it is!" He sighed as he stood and beamed at Severus. "They're safe."

Severus had a look on his face that Remus couldn't fathom, and it was a second before he responded in a neutral tone. "Good news then."

"Yes." Remus frowned. "I hope their supplies aren't running too low. The boat hasn't landed here for two months – _again_ – and their landing is just as rough." He grimaced. "That is to say, there _is_ no real landing. You have to time yourself just right, and come directly onto the ways, or you get thrown against the rocks."

Remus backed down the steps, acutely aware of Severus's long legs and behind following just above him. Fortunately, it was a short staircase.

They chatted between Remus's duties, and though he couldn't see the tide, Remus kept an ear tuned for the sounds of waves striking the tower. He heard none, and when he knew the tide had turned, and the waves would be retreating, he started his cycle of working and napping. 

Severus was snoring softly in the big chair, his feet on a crate and a blanket up to his chin. Remus watched him for a while, fascinated by how the sharp features seemed to soften in sleep, and how the lamp gave his pale skin a warm glow. He had to drag his eyes and mind away; it did him no good, and after the first indulgence, he refused to allow himself to watch the sleeping man again.

~~~~~***~~~~~

Remus forced his eyes open, and his mind back to the present. He rose from the couch, stiff from sitting so still, and stumbled outside, anxious to get away from his memories. But he still had the journal in his hand, and sinking onto the sun-warmed rock by the door, he couldn't help but open it again. His entries were brief, and, as a result of the lesson well-learned in his youth, contained none of his feelings about his guest. He was even careful to say little at all about him, should someone, sometime, open the journal and read his thoughts into his words.

_January 22 nd._

_Barometer up slightly, but wind still strong and seas high. Scattered sun in the afternoon. Inspected boat house; little damage. Repaired one broken plank._

When the weather broke slightly, and the pale face of the sun showed itself for the first time in days, playing tag with the clouds, Remus went out to inspect his island. He had loaned Severus boots and a spare coat, but when he handed him the wet mittens, Severus had just stared at him.

"Doesn't soaking them in water rather defeat the purpose?"

Remus grinned. "Not at all. And before you ask, I don't know; I only know that it works. My mother taught me to make them – all the fisherman use them – and they truly do work. They are knitted large, then boiled, or soaked repeatedly in hot water, until they shrink to size. They're almost impervious."

Severus still made no move to take them.

"Trust me."

With that, Severus's eyes flicked to Remus's face and he reached for the mittens with a small smile. "How could I not?"

The look warmed Remus to his toes, and to divert his mind, he instructed Severus to beat his hands together to warm them and rid the mittens of excess water.

Outside, the wind was still strong, making the winter air brutally cold. There were many puddles on the rocks, most rimmed with ice, and the rocks on the side of the island where the surf broke had beards of frost crystals. There was not much buildup, however, as the high surf washed it away each tide. 

When the sun broke through the heavy clouds, the light sparkled off the surface of the wind-blown puddles like a thousand diamonds, and the sea turned a dozen shades of green and gray. Remus laughed with delight as he scrambled over the rocks to the boathouse. His ever-changing world never ceased to entrance him.

The boathouse, he was relieved to find, had suffered little damage. There was one broken board, and after prying it off, he carried it back to the shed where he had tools and maintenance supplies. He cut a new board to size, then, carrying hammer and nails as well, he and Severus lugged the plank back to the boathouse and nailed it in place.

Stepping back to inspect their work, Remus smiled. "That will hold the rest of the winter. I'll paint it in the spring."

Severus was staring at his hands. "They're warm."

Remus laughed. "You _didn't_ trust me."

"You are a bit odd." Severus spoke over the wind. "But given that you saved my life, I thought it behooved me to at least make a pretense." He nodded toward Remus's hands. "That and you seem to have all your fingers still."

They headed back, taking the long way 'round to inspect the highest part of the island. At a long, narrow depression, more water than dirt, Remus shook his head. 

"My garden." He gestured at the muddy, half frozen mess. "I'll need more dirt."

When Severus looked askance, Remus explained that the fishermen brought him baskets of dirt and manure every spring for his garden. The coming year, he'd need much more than usual, but he knew that wouldn't be a problem. The communities on the island and the mainland much further away, were appreciative and grateful to their keeper for his service, and they took good care of him.

Shoulders hunched against the cold, they walked along the windward side of the island. The sun was coming out less frequently, and the temperature was dropping. 

Looking ahead as a wave surged and receded, Remus caught sight of a flash of silver out of time with the wave. Letting out a whoop of delight, he bounded over the slippery rocks with an assurance bred of long practice. A large fish flopped in the puddle left by the wave, and Remus quickly pinned it beneath one boot. Fumbling out the heavy knife he'd attached to his belt before leaving the house, he knelt down, turned the point up, and dispatched the fish with one solid blow of the handle.

Severus, following more slowly, arrived at Remus's side as he killed the fish. Remus slit it open, gutting it cleanly and tossing the entrails further up the rocks. As if by magic, gulls appeared to partake of the bounty.

Remus rinsed the fish and his mittened hands in a tide pool, hooked his fingers under the gills and stood, beaming and holding up the long, silver body.

"Dinner. Do you like cod?"

Severus laughed. "I'm sure I will."

They returned to the house, walking close together, and Remus couldn't remember feeling this content for a long time. 

Inside, Remus cut off the fish head and tail and trimmed out large fillets with a few deft strokes of his long, flexible boning knife. The steaks he set aside and everything else went into a pot of water to simmer for broth.

The break in the weather was short lived. The barometer plunged and another storm rolled in, coating the rocks and the buildings with ice from snow and freezing spray. Remus was kept busy, venturing out on the catwalk hour after hour to scrape the windows clean, and making frequent trips down the stairs to feed the stove at the bottom of the tower in an effort to keep the lantern room a bearable temperature. Warm was out of the question, but above freezing was almost comfortable.

He and Severus fell into a pattern. After supper, Severus would put the kitchen to rights, then join Remus in the tower. They chatted or read until about midnight when Severus would retire to his bed. Remus had been surprised and pleased those stormy nights when Severus had taken to rising every few hours to feed the stoves, saving Remus several trips up and down the long stairs. Severus didn't cook, but he would have coffee waiting for Remus when he descended the tower in the morning, and he took over what household chores there were, even feeding the hens and collecting the eggs.

Remus had several of his sketches around the living room, and Severus had asked to see more. He had thumbed through the stack of drawings quietly, and when he voiced his simple admiration for them, Remus plucked up the courage to ask if Severus would allow him to try and capture his likeness. Severus had seemed surprised, then amused, but he acquiesced, and times would find Remus reaching for his pad and charcoal to reproduce one expression or another. He filled pages with quick sketches, all of different positions or expressions, but most frequently of Severus reading.

Severus looked over his shoulder as he was filling in shading on a portrait one day and pronounced, "You flatter me. The man you draw is almost handsome."

Caught off guard, Remus blinked in surprise. "But this is how I see you."

He felt his face heat immediately, but Severus saved him embarrassment by looking away, though a small smile curled his lips.

"Have you ever tried any other medium? Oils? Watercolors?" Severus was inspecting a sketch of a laughing girl that was propped on the mantel over the stove.

"I'd like to try watercolors some time." Remus smudged the line of Severus's jaw with his finger. "Don't know anything about them though, and I'm not sure where I'd get the supplies."

Severus had moved on, and was inspecting Remus's small collection of books, not that he wasn't already familiar with the entire contents of the shelf.

"This probably sounds unbearably rude, but...." Severus frowned, as though searching for the right words. "I have found, to my pleasure, that you are far better read, and up to date on world events, than I would have expected for someone in such an isolated location." He looked around the small living room. "And I see no other books."

"Ah." Remus smiled. "But even in the remote wilds of the Colonies we now have libraries."

Severus laughed. "Touché. But you will forgive me if I see none on your island, and I had not gotten the impression that you leave often."

"Not for thirteen years, in fact. Well," he noted Severus's expression of incredulity. "Not to the mainland. I go to Ragged Island once or twice during the long days of the summer. But people do come _here._ " He adjusted the tilt of the eyebrow in Severus's picture. "Someone stops by at least once a week in summer. I have an agreement with the folks on Ragged; they sell me vegetables, milk, cheese and meat, bringing me a standard list of things each week, and frequently more. Then too, some of the fishermen bring their families for picnics, or just to visit and bring news. In the winter I'm a bit more isolated, but I still have the supply boat each month – weather permitting – and I have a deal with the library on the mainland. Although, my selection of books has altered rather drastically this last year." 

"How so?" Severus picked up a book and perched on a low stool.

Remus sighed and set the picture aside. "The position of Lighthouse Keeper is a political appointment. It sometimes passes within a family, as it went to my mother on the death of my father, and to me when my mother left the island two years later. Generally, unless someone wants the position, it will go to anyone who asks. People aren't exactly clamoring to come out here, so I've held the position since I was nineteen. Mostly.

"In 1852, the Lighthouse Board was formed. It's headed by the Secretary of the Treasury, and is composed of two officers of the Navy, two officers of the Engineer Corps, and two civilians of 'high scientific attainments.' There was political jockeying at the time, and I was replaced by someone else."

Remus looked down at his hands, the strong emotions of the time flooding over him. Severus remained quiet.

"He only lasted three months before abandoning the island. The locals begged me to return, as the light was untended, and petitioned Congress to reappoint me." Remus shrugged. "I haven't been back to the mainland since."

Remus bit his lip. The months on shore had been agony. Not only was he separated from his true home, but finding employment had been hard. He had no skills of the kind needed in the coastal town, but being bright, and someone of some small standing among the locals, he had attained a position in the general mercantile on his second day. When he had reported for work the following morning, however, he was greeted not by the friendly smile he had received the day before, but by a cold, hard stare.

 _You're the Reverend Ames' nephew, aren't you._ It had been a statement, not a question. _He's a good friend of mine._ The shop keeper had turned away. _I got no work for you._

And so it had gone, from one shop to another. Some offered sympathetic looks, some just stares of hatred, but all had turned him down until he had entered the Chandlery where he had spent time as a child. Mr. Isaacs had died and his widow ran the store, but it was with little hope that Remus had introduced himself, and asked for work. Widow Isaacs had looked him up and down with a stern expression. 

_You Charles Ames' kin?_

Remus had nodded, and was turning to leave when she went on. 

_I open up at nine. Don't be late._

When Remus had looked surprised, she went on. _Never did like that man._

She waved off Remus's thanks, and disappeared into the back of the store.

"Remus?" Severus's soft query brought Remus back to the cozy living room, and he gave Severus a watery smile.

"Yes. What does all this have to do with my current book selection? Well, the time I lived on shore, when not working, was spent in the new library. The town had opened it with funds left it by a wealthy sea captain, along with his rather extensive collection of books. A young man – my age, actually – had come from Boston to oversee the project. He'd worked with the Boston Library, you see."

Remus could hear the warmth creeping into his voice at the memory, and strove to banish it.

"His name was Ethan, and we had similar tastes in literature. He also had an exhaustive, _and exhausting_ curiosity about any and all things."

Remus drifted into silence again as memories of Ethan, with his mop of soft copper curls, and his expressive brown eyes, overcame him. They had hit it off instantly, and shared many evenings in the library discussing this and that, and laughing over nothing. Ethan had been the only bright spot of his banishment to the mainland. 

He remembered Ethan's shy invitation to have dinner with him, and his shock of sudden understanding, both of himself, and of Ethan. He had declined, and Ethan had been disappointed, but resigned. It was only Remus's standing as former lightkeeper that kept some of the townspeople from running him off; he would not taint Ethan with the same stigma. But, oh, how he had longed to accept!

Remus cleared his throat. "When I was asked to return here, Ethan promised to send me several books a month. On his recommendation, I subscribed to one or two periodicals, and a Boston newspaper as well.

"He sent me books on history and travel along with the works of Melville, Trollope, Dumas, Hawthorn, Emerson, Tolstoy, Thoreau – whatever caught his fancy and he thought I'd like. Which he knew was almost anything. He'd send the books over on the supply boat, and I'd send back the previous month's worth; it was an excellent arrangement.

"Then, a little over a year ago, he was killed in an accident. Run over on the main street of town by an out-of-control team."

Remus shivered. _Of course it was an accident._ "He gave me that shortly before he died." Remus nodded toward the elegantly bound volume of Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_ that Severus was holding in his hands. "The woman who took over the position of librarian seems to think I need character building. She sends me religious essays, and tomes on how to improve myself in the eyes of man and God." Remus wrinkled his nose. "To get any really interesting books, I have to get quite stern with her, and even then, she sometimes claims she can't get what I want."

Severus smirked. "No Balzac, then."

Remus laughed, feeling his cheeks warm. "Already read his works. They were in Ethan's private collection. He tried to put them in the library, but when the good folks of the town found out, they almost tarred and feathered him." Remus shook his head. "His letters on the subject were most amusing.

"I miss him." Remus bit his lip; he hadn't meant to say that.

"It is always difficult to lose a friend." The pain in Severus's voice kept the statement from being trite, but when Remus looked up in question, Severus simply shook his head.

"Another blank spot; the facts are missing, but not the emotions, I'm afraid."

Remus nodded and looked out the window. Dusk was coming early again.

Later, they spent a quiet evening together, Severus reading, and Remus lost in his memories. Severus turned in earlier than usual, bidding Remus a quiet good-night after a long, thoughtful look.

The sun shone brilliantly the next day, and the wind slackened a fair bit. The seas were still running high – far too high for any boat to think of landing on the island – and when the waves crashed on the rocks and the surf shot high in the air, the sun turned it to a curtain of diamonds that scattered on the shore and ran back to the ocean like rivers of white fire. 

Snow had drifted in the leeward shadows of rocks and buildings, and slanted icicles hung from the eaves. The men spent most of the mid-day hours outside, doing minor repairs, clearing driftwood and debris from the rocks around the front of the house, and generally enjoying the sun.

Remus let the hens outside for a few hours, and they ran about investigating bits of seaweed and broken shells as though they'd never seen anything like it. 

It was still early afternoon when Remus herded the hens back in and once again closed the windward side shutters. In the kitchen, they had tea and biscuits with jam, and then Remus stated that he needed a wash.

Remus dragged the metal wash tub into the kitchen and leaned it against the wall near the stove to warm. He fed up all the fires, spread a piece of canvas on the floor to catch any spilled water, righted the tub in the center, closed the door to the living room to prevent drafts, and prepared his bath.

Hot water and stove not withstanding, he was chilly when he finished drying off, applied salve to his healing scrapes, and pulled on his trousers and heavy socks. He dumped the tub and tided before bending over the sink and washing his hair. He toweled it vigorously, and was wiping his face when he heard a chuckle.

Severus was lounging against the frame of the now open door. "You look a bit... disheveled."

Remus grinned. "I'm sure I do. I'm overdue for a trim. Several inches overdue, in fact." He leaned his tiny mirror against the pitcher on the table, and sitting on a low stool, he moved this way and that trying to get a good look at his hair. He finally just picked up the scissors and was reaching back when Severus spoke up.

"I could do that, if you like. I'm not without experience."

"Really?" Remus swiveled on the stool.

Severus frowned. "I haven't a clue how much, or what form my experience takes, but I _am_ certain I have some."

"Pretty much anything has to be better than what I'd do." He held out the scissors.

"Thank you for that vote of confidence." Severus deadpanned as he took the tool. 

He ran his fingers through Remus's hair a few times – or tried to, it was full of knots – before setting the comb and scissors down and using just his hands. He teased each knot out gently, then combed his fingers through looking for the next one.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v377/tinkert/?action=view&current=Trim_lightkeeper_fabledtruant.jpg)

"There is a fair breadth of fashionable hair lengths among the men in London these days; what is your preference?"

Remus laughed. "Fashion hasn't much place here. Ideally, it should be short enough to stay out of my face when I'm working, or long enough to tie back."

"As you wish, my lord." There was a rumble of laughter in Severus's deep voice.

It felt good, and Remus closed his eyes to better enjoy the sensation of the long fingers against his scalp, and moving in his hair. Finally satisfied with the preliminaries, Severus took up the comb and started the process again. Neither spoke, Severus apparently absorbed in his task and Remus near dozing with pleasure.

Remus sighed when Severus at last picked up the scissors, and shivered as the cool steel slid against the skin at the back of his neck. Severus took his time, combing, snipping, and fluffing the hair with his fingers.

"Was this a burn?"

Remus roused himself from his near torpor to notice that Severus was stroking the fingers of one hand over the scar on his shoulder.

"Yes. A can of hot oil overturned on me when I was a child."

Severus's fingers slid down the side of his face. "You were fortunate it missed your eye and most of your face." The scissors snicked near Remus's ear. 

"Yes." Remus tended to forget the scars were even there, and he was enjoying himself too much to worry about making conversation.

Remus's mind was wandering again when Severus's fingers touched some of the faint scars on his back.

"These were surely not caused by an accident."

Remus stiffened. "No."

The word sounded bald and overly strident in the quiet room, but he found that he could say nothing more. After a moment, Severus went on cutting his hair without further comment. 

If the haircut was taking an inordinately long time, it didn't register with Remus, so much was he enjoying himself. The ticklish slide of the tiny tufts of hair down his back made him shiver, as did Severus's touch when he would brush the hair aside. Remus's skin was feeling alive in ways it never had before.

At last Severus set down the scissors and comb, and with feathery light strokes, dusted the minute pieces of hair from Remus's neck and shoulders. The warm hands slid down his back, moving lightly over the scars, then stroked down the front of his shoulders. Remus fought not to lean back into the warmth of Severus's body behind him, and he was quite certain he stifled that breath of a moan he felt building, but when he felt the whisper of Severus's exhalation stir the hair by his ear, and Severus's fingertips graze his nipple, it was akin to receiving a static shock. He sat bolt upright, his nipples hard and aching. Other parts of him were not unaffected, either.

Remus coughed to cover his sudden reaction, and almost dove off the stool, reaching for his shirt at the same time. He mumbled something about the WC and left without grabbing his coat.

Standing on the cold floor of the shed in his socks, puffing great clouds of steam in his agitation, Remus fought down his arousal. When had it snuck up on him? He hadn't ached for touch like this since his teens, and he _refused_ to let his mind go back to that time.

It took several minutes for Remus to feel in control again, and he was chilled through when he finally re-entered the kitchen. Severus had cleaned up the hair and tided the room. The kettle was steaming on the stove.

"Coffee or tea?" Severus took mugs from the drainboard.

"Um, tea. Thanks." Remus pulled on his boots, then grabbed the oil can and went back to the storage room to fill it. He hefted it onto the stove as Severus finished stirring sugar into his tea for him. He took the mug without meeting Severus's eyes, but he was aware that Severus glanced at the clock, and that the clock would tell him that Remus was getting ready a good hour before he needed to.

Holding his mug in both hands, Remus stared at the stove. Severus watched him a few moments in silence and then went into the living room where Remus saw him take up a book. Limp with relief that there would be no confrontation of any kind, Remus gulped his tea, and sprinted up the tower stairs to flop in the big chair. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the feelings and emotions flow through him. The scars on his back twinged and he heard his uncle's voice in his mind as he had in so many nightmares over the years.

_Abomination. Devil's spawn. Unfit to live. Twisted. Unnatural. Animal. Disgrace._

He didn't _feel_ like any of those things. When he talked to the fisherman, played games with their children on a sunny summer's day, he didn't _feel_ evil. The things he had felt for Sirius hadn't felt wrong. What they did, well, yes, perhaps that _was_ wrong, but his feelings hadn't seemed dirty, ugly... twisted. And Ethan. Ethan was a friend. A dear friend, a brother almost. Alright, not a brother, exactly, but _dammit_ , Remus hit the arm of the chair with his fist. 

He wiped an angry tear from his cheek with the heel of his hand. For years, there had been no temptations, and he thought the sinful feelings gone, but now there was Severus. His feelings for Severus were different, he realized. While his love for Sirius had blazed like the sun, his feelings for Severus ran as deep as the ocean. _It wasn't fair._ He hadn't known Severus all that long, how could his feelings be so strong? He was attracted, yes, but that was purely animalistic. What troubled Remus was... what troubled him was.... He sighed. How could he love Severus? He could hardly know the meaning of the word, could he? But there it was, and it wouldn't be denied, irrational though it might be.

With a start, he looked out the window. It was almost time. He stood, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He must hide his feelings, there was no other way. Severus would not return them – thank heavens! For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would be like if he did, but he banished the thought. It would not matter; it would only make things more difficult. Remus could not afford any whispers to cast suspicion on his ability to do his job, or his fitness to fulfill his position of trust. He had pulled Severus from the sea, and it was up to him to continue to safeguard the man's wellbeing until he was on his own again. Therefore, regardless of whether or not Severus felt the same way about him, he must act as if there was nothing but cordial friendship between them. And _of course_ Severus wouldn't feel the same way about him. He must think Remus unbalanced for his earlier behavior.

He descended the stairs, fed the stove at the bottom, and squaring his shoulders, entered the store room, then the house. Severus, he was relieved to see, was still reading, and he lifted the can from the stove and left without speaking.

He did not return for supper, adding a huge helping of guilt to his already overburdened conscience. Severus was not unable to feed himself, Remus reasoned, and he himself wasn't hungry. His inner voice berated him for a coward, but he stayed in the lantern room, going out possibly more than was strictly necessary to clean the windows.

He had just returned from such a mission and was removing hat and mittens when he heard a clang from below. He peeked over the railing and saw Severus tending the stove. Severus did not come up, did not even look up, and Remus piled on more guilt.

At about three in the morning, hunger got the better of Remus, and feeling like a thief, he let himself quietly into his own kitchen. The lamp was burning low in the living room, and he could see Severus asleep in the chair. Quickly, he cut himself a slice of cold ham, grabbed a biscuit, and retreated once again to the safety of his tower.

Come daylight, Remus dawdled over his tasks, choosing to clean the lens before coming down until once again, hunger drove him out of hiding. He was exhausted as well, having spent most of the night berating himself for his feelings, and lecturing himself as to the proper conduct and deportment of a host.

Severus was at the kitchen table, paper strewn around him. He had asked Remus for writing materials the second day, copying down anything he remembered, and even some his dreams.

"Have you eaten?" Remus's voice sounded rusty, and he cleared his throat.

"I am not as competent a cook as you, but I managed." Severus was frowning, and there was a slight edge to his voice.

Remus poured coffee from the pot on the back of the stove, and started assembling his meal.

"Have you remembered more?"

"Quite a bit, actually." Severus's tone was brisk, but he didn't elaborate.

Remus moved his eggs and salt pork to a plate, cut a thick slice off the loaf of bread he had made earlier in the week, refilled his coffee, grabbed a fork and set it all on the table. He straddled the chair across from Severus, who moved a few papers farther out of his way.

There was silence as Remus spread preserves on his bread. "That's... that's excellent."

Severus gave him a long look. "Indeed."

The silence stretched and swelled until the room fairly throbbed with it. Until Severus gathered his things and left, not saying another word.

As soon as he'd cleaned up, Remus fell into bed and slept as he hadn't done in years. It was almost two when he awoke. As he went through the kitchen on his way to the WC, he saw that Severus was back at the table, pages neatly stacked this time.

Hurrying back in, Remus noticed that while Severus still didn't look up, he had moved the coffee pot to the center of the stove, and the fragrant brew was starting to boil.

"Thank you, Severus." Remus stretched and yawned.

"You're welcome." Severus looked up, but Remus averted his eyes.

Remus fetched the pot of frozen fish stock from the store room, added a little water and put it on the stove. He dug in the cabinet, pulling out the last of the potatoes, and found one onion left in the bowl on the counter. They were going to be running out of options for their meals soon. There was still food, just not much by way of variety.

He cut up the potatoes and chopped the onion, glancing occasionally at Severus as he did. Once, he found Severus watching him, and didn't look again. A wave of deep regret washed through Remus. Where was the easy conversation of yesterday, when talk flowed from topic to topic as one idea led to another? He'd killed it, is what had happened. With his unnatural, sinful thoughts and animal desires, he had killed it.

Remus sighed as he added the vegetables to the stock.

Dinner was mostly silent, but it was not the easy silence of days past. When they finished, Remus put the remains of the chowder back in the cold shed while Severus cleaned the kitchen. 

At a loss for something to say, Remus retreated to the sanctuary of the lantern room, re-doing chores that had already been done, and feeling utterly miserable. When it was finally time, he went down the stairs to fill the oil cans.

Remus was setting one can of oil on the stove when Severus entered the kitchen. He stood, just out of Remus's line of sight and waited, forcing Remus to acknowledge his presence. When Remus finally dragged his eyes up, he saw Severus standing, feet planted, arms crossed, staring at him with an intense and unreadable expression. 

"I have offended you." His voice was low.

"No, no." Remus tried for a light tone and failed. "You've done nothing. It's just.... That is...." He swallowed and, not knowing how to continue, he let the silence stretch.

Severus cocked his head, appearing to think. "There has been no boat, therefore, there has been no letter from your banker with news of financial collapse, no notice from your solicitor warning of an impending suit for breach of contract brought by some young lady. Your dog has not been run over by the brewer's dray, your hens are laying, and the roof doesn't leak. There has been no significant change in the weather, and we don't seem threatened by starvation. Therefore, the only factor left to explain the abrupt change in your bearing... is me." 

He came close to Remus, hands in his pockets, and leaned on the counter. "What have I done to cloud your normal sunny disposition? Is the haircut that bad?"

Remus was mesmerized by those dark eyes, and felt as trapped as a bird by a snake. He shook his head in denial. "No. Nothing. It's, it's wonderful. You haven't.... It's not...." He stuttered to a stop. "Please, Severus." The last came out a whisper.

Some strong emotion flitted across Severus's face, before he sighed and looked down. He studied his feet for a moment before raising his eyes once more to Remus's face.

"Were I a proper English gentleman, I would let the matter drop. No. Were I a proper English gentleman I would never have broached the subject in the first place. But I have a feeling that I have never fit that role, and see no reason to try now. So." He gazed at the far wall for a moment before directing his gaze once more toward Remus. 

"I hold you in great esteem, Remus Lupin, and not just because you saved my life. I have imposed upon you for too long, and will continue to do so until the weather clears. Be it one day or twenty, I don't know, but I do know that even another hour of things the way they have been this last day is an intolerable thought." 

Remus thought Severus was about to reach out to him, but he didn't.

"Tell me what you would have me do to mend this."

Remus closed his eyes. The complete openness of Severus's offer, the trust and willingness it showed undid him. He took a deep breath, a knot inside loosening as he exhaled. He could turn and look Severus in the eye without flinching.

"I have... history, and I am letting it overwhelm the present. It is not you, but... things past." He hurried on as Severus's raised a dark brow. "I can't explain, but please.... You have been an exemplary guest, and I have treasured our time together." He adopted a somber expression. "I shall endeavor to stop being such an ass."

The last surprised a snort out of Severus, and the smile he gave Remus made his toes tingle. 

"Have you time for coffee before you start your work?"

Relieved that Severus was dropping the subject, Remus gave him his best smile before answering in the affirmative.

They had a late meal of cold ham and pickle sandwiches that night, and Remus was pleased when Severus joined him in the tower after tidying up. Severus was wearing a thoughtful frown and, instead of sitting in the chair as usual, he paced the small, circular room. Remus, sitting on the stool with the open log in front of him on the bench, waited quietly.

With a sigh, Severus finally stopped his pacing and leaned against the bench close to Remus. 

"It seems that you are not the only one with a history." He looked at a loss as to how to continue.

"We could hardly reach our adult years without acquiring one, could we?" Remus tried to encourage without prying. Severus hadn't shared much about his returned memories.

Severus folded his arms and his frown increased as he stared at the floor. "I think I may have killed someone."

"I... see." Remus's voice was soft.

"Do you?" Severus turned his frown on Remus. "Because I don't." He started to pace again, then sighed, and came to rest by Remus once more. "I apologize. It's so frustrating, remembering only flashes of things, images, now and then a name."

"You mentioned a Lord Malfoy?"

Severus nodded. "Yes. He seems to be someone of long acquaintance and familiarity. I have a sense of loyalty, but of only cautious trust. I believe that my trip here has to do with the gathering of some urgent information concerning the two of us. Information needed to...." He ran his hand through his hair and Remus tried not to notice how it fell softly back into place.

"I believe I was on a mission to find a man. Someone who could clear up a... situation of some import. Someone who could possibly clear my name, or Lord Malfoy's. Or both."

He looked at Remus with troubled eyes. "The memories are not always precisely helpful."

"Do you remember an address? For yourself or this Lord Malfoy?"

A look of triumph lit Severus's face. "My own, yes. I've tried writing my name, now and then, just casually, then moving to the next line as if addressing a letter, and yesterday, it worked; the words flowed. I know my address in London."

"But that's excellent! Is there some way you could use that to reach someone else? Your solicitor, perhaps?"

Severus nodded. "I think so. I believe I was in rooms, and there is a landlady." 

"What about Lord Malfoy?"

"I recall the street he lives on, but I hesitate to try to reach him. I'm feeling some reluctance for letting him know that my memory of events is incomplete. Valid or not, I think that for now I will heed my feelings of imperfect trust."

"That sounds wise." Remus nodded, and bit his lip. "Which brings me to another, somewhat related, subject."

Severus looked up sharply.

"The barometer has been rising steadily, and the wind has slackened considerably. I expect a boat will arrive in a day or two at the most. Even if it's just a fisherman from the island, he will be able to take you there, and from there, someone will get you to the mainland within a day." He tried to keep the sudden, overwhelming sadness he felt out of his face and voice. "You'll be getting off this rock at last."

The world seemed to stand still as Severus looked at him. For a moment he thought – he could almost feel the air tingle in anticipation of it – that Severus was going to reach out to him. But he did not. 

"Oh, Remus." 

The words were so soft, Remus almost didn't catch them. Some strong emotion quivered over Severus's face for a moment and he drew a deep breath. Remus didn't want to know, he really didn't want to know what Severus might say, so before he could say anything further, Remus interrupted.

"I have written a letter for you to give to my banker when you reach the mainland. I have instructed him to give you some money to help until you can contact London."

"I can't possibly take any more from you!" Severus was adamant. "I shall send a letter home on the first boat out."

"And you won't get hungry in the four to six weeks until you hear back?" Remus gave him a wry smile. "Or need a warm bed?"

Severus scowled at him for another moment, then gave Remus a smile of such softness that Remus was almost undone. "You are more than a friend, Remus Lupin. I shall see that you are repaid."

"I know you will." Remus had to clear his throat. "But the best repayment will be the full recovery of your memory. I wish there was something I could do about that."

"You gave me my life. My memories are minor compared to that." 

"Well...." Remus felt his cheeks warm at the gratitude in Severus's voice. To conceal his awkwardness, he rose to tend to the light.

~~~~~***~~~~~

_February 6 th. _

_Earl Sanborn arrived with some food and took Mr. Snape to the island._

Such a simple entry for a day that was so huge. 

The day following their conversation, a bright, beautiful winter day, one of the fishermen from Ragged Island had landed on Bird Rock bringing with him a sack full of food. They shared coffee together, then he had needed to leave, wanting to get back before the tide turned.

Remus shoved his spare coat and boots at Severus, pointing out that, logically, he could not leave without them. He grabbed mittens from a nail by the door and stuffed them in the pockets of the coat.

"Keep these." He swallowed hard. "You'll not find better, even in London."

He then handed over the letter addressed to the manager of the bank, and all too soon they were outside, and he was squinting at his guest in the sun, trying to find something he could say.

"Take care, Severus. Don't undo all my hard work of rescuing you." He fought to keep his voice steady as his world dissolved around him.

Severus reached out a hand and Remus clasped it. For a moment they stood still, then Severus pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I will come back." The soft, fierce whisper was almost drowned out by the shout of the fisherman, eager to leave.

And then the fisherman _was_ leaving, rowing out to the anchored boat, Severus sitting in the bow of the dinghy, his eyes fixed on Remus as he was carried away from the island. 

A piece of Remus went with him that day. 

In less than a week, the government boat arrived from the mainland bringing the much needed supplies and Remus's mail. There was a letter from his banker saying that the money had been turned over as requested, and a squashy package in brown paper, tied with twine. It was the clothes and boots he had loaned Severus, but not the mittens. There was a note inside.

_R,_

_Had I realized how generous you were going to be with your funds, I would have tried to dissuade you. I assure you that you shall be repaid as soon as possible._

_As to what else I owe you, that debt may have to wait a while longer, though how to repay a man for your life, I do not know._

_Being back on the mainland, in town, my memory has started returning rapidly, with more of the blanks being filled in every day. I am on my way to New York, my original destination. I shall stop in Boston for a stretch and see if I can learn more of the man who gave me that push off the packet. I am sure now that my swim was not an accident and am rather eager to meet the person who precipitated it._

_Your servant,  
S._

Remus held the shirt to his face and inhaled deeply, then used it to wipe away his tears.

~~~~~***~~~~~

Two months later, Remus received a letter from his banker saying that the money had been returned, with interest, but it was six months before he heard from Severus again.

The monthly boat arrived with his supplies and the mail, including a large two foot by three foot box that was several inches thick, and which bore a London postmark. Puzzled and excited, Remus pried open the box and dug inside. There he found a large portfolio of art paper, three boxes of watercolors, several brushes, and a beautifully bound book illustrating the technique of painting with watercolors.

Remus was beyond speech at the generosity of the gift. He was fingering the heavy paper when he saw the note.

_R,_

_While it can not begin to repay my debt to you, I hope these few things will bring you pleasure._

_My memories seem to have been completely restored, and I am humbled to say that they are not all as I might wish them to be. I have managed to clear my name of any stain of legal wrongdoing, but I find that I have amends to make and debts of honour to pay._

_It is my sincerest hope that I will discharge my obligations here within the coming year, and will then be free to travel._

_Your servant,  
S._

The vexation of finding no return address was quickly overshadowed by the delight Remus took in his gifts. He studied the book carefully for several days and then cautiously started to apply paint to paper. He was delighted with the results, and in no time felt confident enough to copy and color one of his favorite sketches of Severus.

~~~~~***~~~~~

Remus rose from his seat on the rock in the sunshine and walked blindly back into the house. He slipped the journal back into place and put the cover on the packing crate. Reluctantly, he picked up the worn portfolio leaning against the crates. Setting it atop the stack, he opened it and flipped through the many sketches and watercolors. Birds, fish, rocks, the lighthouse, and on the bottom of the pile, Severus.

It was the only picture he had redone of Severus in color. Severus had been sitting in the big chair in the lantern room, his cheek resting on his fist, reading. His long hair was falling forward, shading half his face, but he had turned his eyes up to Remus, and the smallest of smiles curled his lips and softened the lines around his eyes.

Remus took a deep breath and looked around the room. It was eight years since Severus had come and gone. For three weeks he had turned Remus's world upside down, then vanished. After the arrival of the art supplies, and what had seemed to be a promise in the words of the note, there had been nothing more. Were it not for the log books and the drawings, Severus might not have existed at all.

And yet, Remus felt forever changed. The light was still what he lived for, and his life on the rock still brought him peace, but there was an awareness now, a dull ache as though something was missing. He was not unhappy, not discontent, just... missing something. Something, he knew, he could never have.

The clock struck three bells; the government boat would be there soon. A change in the Presidency, a new Secretary of the Treasury who was also President of the Lighthouse Board, and a new political appointee. Just like that, just like last time, Remus was out of a job. Out of a life. The letter from the Board had acknowledged his years of excellent service, and stated that his replacement was in no way a reflection on the job he had done. They promised to keep him in mind, if he wished, should another post open up, but right now, they regretted to inform him, there was nothing for him. 

After all the years, there was nothing. 

His savings would only last so long. Maybe, he could go to Boston, or New York. He sighed. And do what? The light was his heart, and it had been taken from him.

Remus folded the picture of Severus over and creased it violently, then folded it again, and tucked it inside his shirt. He slapped the portfolio closed and left the house, closing the door firmly behind him. 

He didn't look around as he strode toward the end of the island and the lighthouse tower, shining bright in its new coat of whitewash. He didn't see the fishing boat bobbing at anchor on the leeward side of his island, or the dinghy that was making for the ways with its long-haired passenger.

Remus stooped to pick a dead flower from among the blooms at the base of the tower and toss it away into the wind. His eyes searched for more imperfections in the flower bed, and finding none, he turned once more. The bulk of the buildings blocked his view of the rest of the island, and he didn't see the man striding over the rocks toward the house.

A few more steps brought Remus to the end of the island. The land fell away abruptly here, forming a small cliff. It wasn't tremendously high, but the rocks below were jagged and the waves surged over them with a sound like thunder before receding with a hiss, leaving sharp, barnacle covered edges exposed and glistening in the sun. There was a steady wind, and Remus smiled and closed his eyes, spreading his arms as if to embrace his world. 

Startled by the movement, two gulls took flight from the rocks nearby, wheeling in the updrafts from the cliff, and sending out their raucous cries. 

He didn't see the man start to run, or hear the man call his name.

~~~~~ end ~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary of Terms
> 
> _betty lamp:_ Small oil lamp for household use.
> 
>  _bow:_ (rhymes with cow) It has been pointed out to me that not everyone knows that the front of a boat is the bow. (They don't?)
> 
>  _butts:_ Square-ish tin containers that held 100 lbs of oil.
> 
>  _chandlery:_ A shop that sells the items needed for ships.
> 
>  _close-hauled:_ When the sails are tightly trimmed, and the boat is sailing as close to the wind as possible. If that helps.
> 
>  _dingy/dory:_ Small row boat that can sometimes also, depending on size and style, be sailed.
> 
>  _Fresnel lens:_ Invented by French physicist and engineer Augustin-Jean Fresnel, this method of collecting and focusing the light from a lamp revolutionized lighthouses. Before the Fresel lens, up to 87% of the lamp light was dissipated, so even the multi-lamp and reflector method didn't work that well. With the Fresnel lens, the numbers reversed, and only 13% of the lamp light was lost, making the beacon visible for up to four or five times the distance. Fresnel lenses commonly came in six sizes, or orders, with first order being the largest. These lenses were from 10-17' high, and roughly 8' across. Most were beehive shaped, but there were other designs as well. They contained from 250 odd, for the plain, stationary beacons, to over 1,000 pieces of glass, each hand cut and polished, and mounted on a brass frame. They could weigh upwards of 12,000 lbs. 
> 
> Like Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon, you can see pictures and be impressed, but until you are actually in its presence it is difficult to truly grasp the magnificence of one of these huge works of art. 
> 
> _lucerne:_ Small brass can with a long spout used to fill the oil lamps.
> 
>  _packet:_ Comparatively small, fast sailing ships designed to carry mail packets, some freight and a few passengers.
> 
>  _peapod:_ Used in New England by lighthouse keepers and rescue squads, this double-ended 13-14' boat was sturdy, stable, and easy to row and sail.
> 
>  _soapstones/warming stones:_ In cold country in colonial times, folks would warm stones in the oven to use in the foot of their beds, under their feet in a sleigh, or – small ones – in their pockets to help keep warm. Soapstone was – and is – the best material for this as it doesn't split when heated, and retains its warmth well. It is still used, in small pieces, in bread baskets.
> 
>  _three bells:_ Ship's clocks divide the day into four hour-long watches and strike every half hour. Three bells is either one-thirty – as is the case in the story – five-thirty, or nine-thirty.
> 
>  _ways:_ On rocky islands where there was no dock or beach and frequently rough seas, two wooden rails were built from boathouse to sea. Landing was tricky. The boat had to be lined up perfectly, then rowed in on the crest of a wave to bring it as far up the ways as possible. Someone then had to jump out quickly with the rope and haul the boat up out of reach of the waves.
> 
>    
>  Story Notes
> 
> 1\. The island that Remus is on is fictional, but could very well be one of the many that dot the Maine coast. The hardships endured by the lightkeepers of these remote stations could be extreme, and the supply boats not being able to land for months is not an exaggeration. Most of the lightstations had more than one person in residence, either the keeper's family, or an assistant keeper, so Remus's being alone was not the common situation.
> 
> 2\. The story of Abbie Burgess is a true one. January of 1857, when our story takes place, brought even worse weather than the year before, and Abbie found herself in an even more dire situation when her father was kept away for three weeks by the weather. Once again, though she cared for her invalid mother and two younger sisters, though waves washed over the house and they faced starvation, seventeen year old Abbie kept the lights burning.
> 
> 3\. Yes, people would bring dirt to the rocky islands so the keepers could have gardens, and in 1876, the Light House Service established traveling libraries – a trunk full of books – to be provided to the more remote stations on a rotational basis. I'm sure Ethan's selections were more interesting, but then....
> 
> 4\. Credit for the title plate photo goes to my friend Jan, who accompanied me on my 'research' trip to one of the oldest lighthouses in Maine. The first-order Fresnel lens has been in continuous operation the second longest of any in the country, its steady beacon of light shining for one hundred and fifty-three years.
> 
> 5\. One last item. The boiled woolen mittens of which Severus (and Hogwarts Honey) were so skeptical, are an old fishing tradition. I'd say Maine tradition, but I'm sure they were probably brought to the New World from somewhere else.


End file.
